


Solitude

by soulfire003



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7700050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulfire003/pseuds/soulfire003
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wing has returned from an afterlife he never could have seen coming to a world that isn't as he left it. He should be glad to be alive at all, but death left an impression that has changed him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as writing practice based on an RP storyline where I currently play Wing. Finished!

Theophany had grown cold in the past several weeks, bringing the beginnings of winter along with it right on schedule as the planet continued its long orbit around a still young sun. With the city dome closed and the power severely restricted, routed only to where it was needed, darkness shaded most of the buildings and structures still left standing - or barely standing, in some cases - within New Crystal City. 

Wing thought it ghastly, even a little threatening. There had been times, too long ago now, when the white walls stood pristine, glistening, almost new despite the thousands of years that their society thrived under the planet’s desert surface. Shadows that bloomed and grew when the evenings cycled in and the artificial illumination dimmed were held at bay by the life occupying every level, every place of business, every apartment, every museum, every library. Everywhere, their people brought the light with them. 

Now, New Crystal City was home to only one resident. With winter came darkness, acting as an amplifier for the silence, and Wing, who, under almost any other circumstance, could easily befriend anyone, made no companion of the solitude. In a text he had once read in his first life concerning emotional trauma, it was said that repeated exposure to an event or circumstance could build tolerance, providing a method to healing when the conditions were right. He thought he must not be right for such therapy. It had been months since his unusual resurrection and the walls of the city had continued to close in on him as though he’d just crawled into his own grave.

He lifted one trembling hand to a cracked pillar that had been as white as his own armor at one time. Dark fingers trailed over its blackened surface, but consciously he saw none of it. What he saw lay past his armor, past the Cybertronium structure, somewhere only he could see.

The Circle of Light did not accept individuals into their society through any application or interview, but sought out by virtue of character. Not with pride did he admit his strengths, physical or otherwise; he let them speak for themselves, true to his modesty. His eyes had been opened to a great many things in his long service under Dai Atlas, but he had learned on his own that life was all about lessons. Death, as it turned out, was no different, just a continuation of where the living left off and just as cruel. Where normally Wing took in information like the dry desert sands absorbed water that fell when occasional storm cells passed overhead, he struggled with a new concept that the afterlife had deemed he needed to understand: true loneliness.

_Fog, all around. Thick, thick. Far as could be seen. Every direction. Voices, from within, unintelligible. None of them are any he recognizes, but he calls to them regardless, growing more and more desperate as he begins to realize he can’t move. Sorrow sets in when he looks down, somehow, and finds he no longer has his own body. What he is is someone who didn’t survive the battle._

Never before had he been alone, and it was surprising in a terrible way when Wing realized it. The apartment he kept to himself on Cybertron, the apartment he kept to himself on Theophany. Nights he spent in solo flight over Vos. Quiet times during his meditations in the crystal gardens. These lost all color and rusted away when compared to what he now faced in death. At any time, there had been a friend within audio range. Whenever he wanted, he could find another Cybertronian, another warm frame to see and speak with, even at a distance.

This new isolation had proven itself far more intense. Wing was not ready for it, and neither was he coping well with it. If nothing, Wing knew his limitations and a creeping awareness that he was quickly reaching one of them as the days passed, stretched into weeks, grew into months overtook him. But he worried, when he had sense enough about him to be worried, that he had already reached that threshold and crossed it, coaxed by a blast from an otherworldly plasma rifle.

_Time passes, and he has no way of knowing how long it has been. There is no day or night. Seasons do not exist. The fog is ever present - it is the only constant in this plane. He remembers the killing blow. He has come to terms with his death, but he is utterly alone here and he can’t bear it. The voices come and go, but none respond to his screams. For the first time in his existence, Wing is terrified._

Wing flinched and turned away from the pillar, walking to some undecided destination. His steps were slow, unsure with the haze of memory.

His renewed life offered some mercy in that he had an outlet of sorts. The city had a new addition, something that the Circle might have been able to construct after his demise, but if he knew Dai Atlas like he thought he did, Wing had doubts that it would have been built at all. A portal to the multiverse served to grant him access to any number of worlds. Life returned left him in a state of shock upon seeing New Crystal City in so tragic a condition, but the portal opened new doors - literally - and a period of exploration took him with almost giddy abandon.

In short time, Wing even fell in love. One of his friends had taken a liking to him that went well beyond the boundaries of friendship. Wing carried a willingness to open his spark and his frame to others when the mood and time was right, but with Gasket, the lines met, blurred, and separated into something more, something deeper. It wasn’t the first time Wing knew affection so strong, but it was the first time that it had ever been reciprocated, and it was beautiful. Nothing had ever set him so free, given him so much happiness. It was far from perfect, but while it lasted, when they were together, what they had managed to ward off the storm hanging over his head. If there was a peace to be found in the Well, Wing thought surely love must be it.

Exactly when things fell apart, he couldn’t be sure. The memory was difficult to revisit even now, months later, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was just what he deserved. They were still holding on, fighting to make things work, but something had slicked their grip until finally, through agony and tears, they slipped apart. Relationships like this were the stuff of stories, always happening to others he knew and not himself and at one time, Wing had been content with that. He still bore his empathies for ones he knew who had suffered break ups, felt his spark break for characters in novels, but to see it happen to someone else and have it happen to himself were each on a level of their own.

He had nothing to compare to the pain he felt, the ache that persisted. It was as though a spear had been driven through his chest again and wedged itself there, keeping him on and off mortality’s edge at its leisure. They kept in contact, but drifted apart further and further until one day, the comm line went dead. Afraid for Gasket, Wing tried the portal to step through to his former lover’s world and look for him, but the coordinates did not register. Try though he did, Wing could not get back to Gasket’s universe.

The misfortunes came then in spades, lifting veils and peeling back layers to the world into which he had been brought. With them came a new perspective. What seemed like a release from a lonely prison with his life returned suddenly became a fragile existence that could end at any time. He almost hated himself for not seeing it sooner, but there it was, staring him right in the face. The portal changed, or perhaps it always had been changing. Coordinates that were open to him before no longer linked to their expected destinations or led nowhere at all. A few seemed strong, reliable, and for that, Wing gave spark-deep gratitude. He held those connections and the people he never would have met without them as he might a loved one or a precious new spark, but the harsh fact remained. The portal was unpredictable.

If all of that suddenly disappeared, he would be left with only a ruined city he could not hope to restore on his own power and a generous though limited supply of energon that would one day dry up, leaving him to starve to death if his seclusion didn’t bring death back to him sooner, and an eternity cut off from everyone and everything all over again.

Inexplicably, Wing found himself withdrawing. He thought despite everything, he should leap at the chance to be with the new friends he had made, if only just to hear a voice that could answer rather than the deafening silence of limbo. It was no small miracle that those with the ability to use comm frequencies could do so across universes. The portal undoubtedly had something to do with that, though the how’s and why’s were as big a mystery as Primus himself. But Wing still hesitated.

_All of his pleading, all of his prayers meet silence. He is in the Well, but alongside the isolation, he finds a whole new depth of despair. He has always been religious, letting his faith guide him, letting that light see him through the worst of times. Even when Cybertron tore itself apart and he felt sure that Primus must be so disappointed in and saddened by his own creations that he had turned away to let them sort themselves out, Wing still prayed. Wing still believed that at his end, he would find their creator if he tried hard enough, if he could prove himself. But Primus is not here. Primus will not answer._

_He looks back on his life, when he is not wracked in misery, and wonders what he did wrong. How did he convince Primus to abandon him so completely? Worse still, what did that mean for the rest of his kind? He will never know. He exists now in perpetual torture, and his former life and actions are all he has to blame._

A lifetime ago, in spite of his high social standing, Wing had once assigned himself a part in caring for Cybertronians living in the lower grounds in Vos, places that many often shunned and avoided out of disgust or embarrassment. But those inhabitants were people nonetheless, something that most of their society tended to conveniently forget when bank accounts ran low and living conditions became unlivable. His own funds and time and effort that could be spared were to help get those unfortunate ones back on their feet. He could see himself speaking with one of those despairing, angry sparks. What would he tell them? Find something that feels right and stick to it. Take time out of each day to concentrate on the self, on healing. Seek out friends. Let them lend their strength.

What of his own advice did he take? At first, all of it. New Crystal City was a venture on its own, what with the mess that had been left behind from the battle after the Circle had been captured. It would never be as it once was, but he was glad and not to have only the rubble and dust left to clear out to find not a single body remained. They would need to be cared for, given a proper funeral, and in a selfish way, Wing wasn’t sure that he could handle it himself. The city was in a sorry state, and he alone was left to deal with it and his own pains. Day in and out, for weeks on end. But new worlds provided new opportunities, not only in friendship but in something he could do, tasks he could use to fill his time besides a restoration effort that might take him to the end of his remaining days to complete what he could. 

The trouble in searching other worlds for a new purpose was that it felt too much like running away from the tragedies in his own, and the guilt ate at him. A version of the Lost Light had kindly offered him a place in its crew and he had accepted. For a while, he had convinced himself that he was making a difference somewhere, and that was enough. He worked in the ship’s maintenance, well away from its Drift, where a whole other level of guilt weighted down on him. (If Wing had ever hated anyone - truly hated them - it was himself, and it was over the events before his death where Drift, any Drift was concerned. He had learned there were certain parallels across the universes he visited, and one of them was that Wing had imprisoned Drift to save his life, but it had been wrong. He knew it was wrong. The fact that he had seen no other choice in the matter for either of them meant little to him, as a person or as a Knight of the Circle.) He told himself that he was another set of hands, another skilled fighter when necessary to help them in their journey. But his was also another tank to fuel, and every hour that he put in on the Lost Light meant one more that New Crystal City sat in ruin.

Eventually it was too much, and he resigned his position on the ship to return to his world. It felt right to be there again, and it hurt to admit that this was where he belonged. He could always use the portal, when worlds were still reliably available to him, and he could still offer his services and assistance to others when he found he was needed, but they weren’t home.

In a way, he felt it was just what he deserved. Why should he live in a peaceful sanctuary when he had done… something so wrong in his first life? He never could understand just where he’d gone wrong, but Wing didn’t expect he ever would. Primus had been silent in the past, when things seemed to be going so well. Wing was owed nothing; there would be no answer now. 

The chamber that opened before him had been built with a high, vaulted ceiling that tapered off to a series of halls snaked back and back. The architecture and design reflected those found in ancient Cybertronian temples, glossed over in white with glyphs and engravings and embossed scenery. It was a place of rest for the deceased, but in all of the time that Wing had lived in the city, not one person had taken the mausoleum as their last home. Theophany had not seen a Cybertronian death in recorded history until he fell at the hands of the slavers. 

Something about that seemed so humorous in his mind, but he couldn’t muster a laugh over it.

He had been here several times, enough to make his way back to right spot in perfect darkness. There was a bench along the wall once he had gone far enough. He nudged it with the tip of his foot almost in greeting, but did not sit. A hand went up to the wall he knew would be there and passed over its surface once back, then forth before he found the plaque he sought. Fingers traced the one word there for the umpteenth time: Wing. Every other plaque on every other wall had not been carved - he had checked them thoroughly. There was a certain irony in the thought that his was the only grave here. First to die, first to return, sole inhabitant. It was like a part of him had been cemented to the city by the hand of some entity he could never hope to see or know, something far beyond his control. This city, which was equally as void of life as his death had been and left him just as frighteningly alone. This forever would be where he was meant to be, but it no longer felt like the sanctuary it once had been.

It felt like punishment.


End file.
